


Who Fights Monsters

by Zeborah



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeborah/pseuds/Zeborah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hotch fantasises that he's back in the hospital, a gun in his face and a smirk on his lips because he's the one in control.</p>
<p>"Let me kick the snot out of this kid," he says.</p>
<p>Dowd grins and cheers him on, not knowing what comes next. For the sake of that 'next', Reid submits with only a show of resistance. And Hotch, pulling both their strings — Hotch slams him to the floor and kicks him with impunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Fights Monsters

Hotch fantasises that he's back in the hospital, a gun in his face and a smirk on his lips because he's the one in control.

Reid, sitting on the floor beside Hotch's chair, is babbling.

"Shut up, Reid," Hotch says contemptuously, and Reid shrinks into silence.

Philip Dowd thinks he's in control because he holds the gun, but Hotch can read him like a book and play him like a pipe. He immediately takes the bait. "No, don't shut up," he says, and Reid squirms as he insists on an answer.

"Go ahead, genius, tell him," Hotch taunts. Reid looks up, startled and docile and not quite certain, all at the same time. Hotch repeats, "Tell him. But remember, get it wrong and he's going to kill you."

Reid swallows and ducks his head nervously, and Dowd has eyes only for Hotch. "You're the boss: _you_ tell me," he says, and Hotch feeds him a tale he's only too eager to swallow.

When he has Dowd eating from the palm of his hand he adds, "You know why they took away Boy Genius's gun? He failed his qualification."

Dowd laps it up while Reid tries to hide behind his hair, and all Hotch has to do is sound resentful when he could laugh at their expressions. "Twice a year I've got to listen to him whine about requalifying. So I tutor him, and he fails _again_."

His anger is a lie: he enjoys tutoring Reid, who's always so eager to follow his instructions, so pliable under his hands. But the words are true, and he says them to hurt. It'd be so easy to entirely crush him — so much sweeter to keep him wondering, _He doesn't mean it... does he? It's only a ruse... isn't it?_

"Let me kick the snot out of this kid," he says.

Dowd grins and cheers him on, not knowing what comes next. For the sake of that 'next', Reid submits with only a show of resistance. And Hotch, pulling both their strings — Hotch slams him to the floor and kicks him with impunity.

In his fantasy he doesn't pull his blows.

His shoe meets ribs, thigh, and all the soft parts between. Reid makes noises, deep in his throat: little grunts and moans and howls cut off. They mean _I trust you_ and _...I think_ , and _It's okay_ and _Stop, please— please please stop_.

Hotch is hot from the exertion. Sweat beads his brow as he adds insults to the injuries. "It's not that hard," he snaps, giving his hardest kick yet. "A dalmation could do it!"

Reid clutches the leg that kicks him, going for the ankle holster. His fingers scrabble desperately on Hotch's calf. He curls to shield what he's doing and looks like a puppy humping its master's shoe. Hotch doesn't make it easy for him: he prolongs it as long as he can before throwing him off and letting him shoot Dowd dead.

And in his fantasy there's no SWAT team to burst in, no witnesses to worry about. He can turn back to Reid and look down where he's breathing hard in spent terror and overwhelming relief. He can pluck the gun from his bound hands and watch him sag back to the floor, completely vulnerable. He can stand over him, waiting for his brow to furrow in confusion and his eyes to widen in fresh alarm.

And then he can boot him again in the ribs.

*

In reality he'll never let himself lose control like that. He buttons up his shirt and knots his tie and slips into his jacket, and he is in full control. If he glowers, if he shouts, if he shoots someone's shoulder and denies them painkillers, it's what he has to do to do his job — no more.

Not much more.

*

Hotch fantasises that he's back in the prison, locked in a cell with Reid and a folder full of photos and a serial killer due for execution in two days' time.

Chester Hardwicke is smug because he sees Hotch press the buzzer twice and thinks Hotch is trying to get out. "It's 5:17," he says. "Evening hours started at five o'clock."

Hotch, satisfied that no-one's coming to interrupt this, turns to watch him. It lets him see Reid, too, his face dawning with realisation about Hardwicke's plan.

Hardwicke lectures them on it, on the thirteen minutes they have before anyone will be back to interrupt them. He thinks those thirteen minutes are his, and picks a photo to illustrate what he plans to do with them. Then he flicks the photo aside and says, "While you were doing your research, maybe a question or two about security tones would have been a good idea."

"I heard the tones," Hotch corrects him. Reid is darting alarmed glances at him, and Hotch likes to think he isn't sure who to be more afraid of.

Hardwicke is sceptical. "So you planned to be locked inside with me," he scoffs, rubbing his hands in anticipation as he strolls around the room and Hotch tracks him, "with no guns or weapons?"

"I won't need a gun."

No-one can say he isn't warning Hardwicke: he can't be blamed for not trying. Or seeming to try. Oblivious to the threat, Hardwicke leans gleefully against a pillar; behind Hotch, Reid is slipping into the shelter of another.

Hardwicke gloats, "There's no way they're going to execute me next week. Not after I kill two FBI agents. You saved my life by coming here."

"But unfortunately for you," Hotch says, his body humming in anticipation, "I'm not a five-foot-tall, hundred pound girl."

The shot rings home; Hardwicke jerks straight.

Hotch rolls his jacket off his shoulders, enjoying the effect his smooth confidence has on Hardwicke's sudden doubts. While he takes his turn to gloat, Hardwicke steps forward as if sizing him up, but it's a front now. Hotch tugs his tie free as he talks. It's good strong silk, but he tosses it aside. He's not going to strangle Hardwicke. "At your core," he says, jabbing the air with his index finger, knowing the gesture will enrage Hardwicke, "you're a coward."

Hardwicke snarls, and Reid blurts, "Chester, do you want to know why you killed those women?"

In Hotch's fantasy, Hardwicke doesn't let himself get distracted.

He attacks, and Hotch meets him halfway. Hardwicke is taken aback by his savagery, but recovers quickly. He's quick and fierce and fighting for his life, but he still thinks it's his execution in two days' time that he's trying to prevent.

And Hotch is fiercer. He has no greater goal than the next blow, and Reid's distressed, "Hotch!" only energises him. Hardwicke gives him what will be a black eye, but that's what he wants. Every time Hardwicke hits him gives him licence to continue. And when Hardwicke throws a chair at the window and comes at him with a shard of the glass, Hotch can wrest it from his hand and—

"Hotch!"

—Plunge it deep in Hardwicke's throat.

Blood spurts, warm and salty. Hardwicke staggers and falls and dies. Hotch tosses the glass after him: it's cut his own hand, and he clenches his fist on the pain as he turns around.

In his fantasy, Reid's eyes are wide and panicked, his mouth open on some frozen protest. "Hotch," he chokes out, "what..."

Hardwicke's blood tickles the corner of his mouth. He tips his chin up and, watching Reid, wipes it away.

"What," Reid repeats, but can't finish the sentence: can't accuse him. He flounders and asks instead, "What happens now?"

"Now?" he echoes heavily, and takes a measured pace forward. "Now we wait for the guards to come back, and then we explain to them how I had to kill Hardwicke while you hid in your corner and _watched_."

Reid flinches. "I tried—"

"Yes, Reid, but that's not what it looks like, is it? Your partner was fighting for his life and you don't have a scratch on you. How are you going to explain that?"

"I— I don't—" But he does know. He knows they'll ask, if Hardwicke was such a threat, how Reid escaped unscathed. He knows they'll ask, if Hardwicke was such a threat, why he didn't help Hotch subdue him. He knows they'll ask if Hardwicke was such a threat at all.

And he knows there are seven minutes left before anyone will be back to open the door.

So in Hotch's fantasy he licks his lips, and swallows, and says, "If... if he'd've hurt me, I wouldn't need to explain anything." He looks up at Hotch's face, eyes darting, to make sure they're reading each other correctly. He shifts his satchel and drops his hands in jerks to his side and waits.

And his whimper, at the first blow, is just exactly what Hotch has always remembered.

*

In reality, he hates seeing Reid in pain. Partly, he admits to himself, because he's not the one inflicting it. But mostly because it's not just a thud and a whimper. It's weeks, months afterwards, of seeing the bags under his eyes, sensing his distraction in meetings, hearing him snap at the team, knowing that this is all just the tip of the iceberg and wondering if it can ever be fixed.

So these fantasies aren't what Hotch wants. They're not. They're—

There's a difference between wanting a thing and wanting the consequences of a thing.

*

Hotch fantasises that he's back in the dusty street outside the police station, sheltering behind the door of the SUV and watching Reid and Owen Savage down the sights of his gun.

Owen's on a suicide mission and Reid's on a mission to stop him, even if it means endangering himself, the team, and the case. He has literally no sense of self-preservation when he identifies with someone. He thinks that blocking the BAU's line of fire is enough to protect Owen, as if Hotch picked up those sharpshooter trophies from the stationery cupboard along with a fresh block of sticky notes.

Hotch keeps his face grim, because Dave beside him isn't so distracted he wouldn't notice naked predatory delight. He watches Reid throw a glance over his shoulder and adjust his position, and he watches him turn back to talking Owen down.

Then, in his fantasy, he moves. He drops back behind the SUV and eases out the other side, away from the rest of the team. Reid can't block _every_ angle. It's still not the best shot, so step by measured step Hotch sidles from the car. His trigger finger is ready, because Reid won't be able to keep Owen's attention forever.

One more step and Owen sees him. He snaps up his rifle. Hotch takes the shot.

The recoil surges through his body like solid adrenaline, and with it the thrill of Reid's wordless cry.

Owen drops. By the time Hotch closes the distance between them, Reid's on his knees, searching for a pulse. Hotch looks down at the bullet hole dead centre of the forehead and kicks the assault rifle off to the side.

"There's no point," Reid says, glaring an accusation up at him. "He's dead."

"You're not." He hasn't put his own gun away, and his finger still rests by the trigger. Reid's crossed more lines in this case than a snail on a sidewalk. It means Hotch doesn't have to confine himself to a quiet heart-to-heart on the jet. He can suspend him, he can fire him — he can do anything he wants.

Reid's mouth falls open as he realises it, but he's still too angry to be nervous.

Hotch doesn't know what it will take to knock some sense into him, but he's looking forward to finding out. He lifts his gun to provide some context for his order: "Interlace your fingers behind your head."

He obeys without a thought, even as he argues, "He was just a kid."

"Get up."

"I could have saved him," he says, stumbling to his feet.

"Turn around." He holsters his gun and wrenches Reid's arms down behind his back, with a force that twists little squeaks from his throat. He cuffs Reid with cold metal, _click-k-k-k_ and _click-k-k-k_. Reid squeaks again, and Hotch tightens the cuffs another notch each around his bony wrists, to feel him flinch and hear him hiss.

Then he grips a fistful of his collar and marches him back into the station.

In his fantasy there's no BAU to stop him, no local police to witness. Hotch propels him all the same into the empty office, closes and snibs the door behind them, and strides on in past him. He itches with impatience and takes pleasure from drawing it out.

He turns.

And it's several hours earlier, same office, same face-off. Reid is glaring at him and _still_ mouthing off: no sense of self-preservation, _vide supra_. "They could have seen the signs!" he insists.

"Nobody sees the signs, Reid," he says, almost laughing, because Reid himself is oblivious even as Hotch says with emphasis, " _You_ know that." He advances on him as he talks, and Reid juts his chin higher into the air.

In his fantasy Hotch punches it: _crack_.

The force drives it almost over Reid's left shoulder. His hair flies like a shampoo commercial with a lot less shampoo, and he yelps in surprise. But he catches his stumble and looks back at Hotch, still more outraged than afraid. "You're _punishing_ me?"

"No," Hotch tells him, and lands another one in his gut: he hears the satisfying huff of air and savours the way Reid folds into an involuntary bow over his fist. "I'm _using_ you."

*

In reality, he can't throw a decent punch to even literally save his life. Granted that exhaustion and a whiskey glass were never going to do much against a gun and a knife and a man with all the energy, motivation, and horrifying amounts of practice to use them. But there's a reason why Hotch's backup weapon of choice is just another gun. And there's a reason why it's been kicked out of his hand more often than he's had a chance to use it.

Ultimately he's as much a coward as Chester Hardwicke. With a hero complex just like Philip Dowd. Turning into something worse than the bullies he rages against, just like Owen Savage.

And he's going to die here on the ground, just...

Just like...

*

Hotch fantasises that he's back in Bill Jarvis's house, walking into chaos and gathering up strings like so many puppets in his hands.

He sides at once with Darrin Call against his father Jarvis. He takes a page from Reid's book and blocks the sharpshooters' line of fire, and just as smoothly he manoeuvres the boy Darrin kidnapped safely out the front door. Puppets in his hands: and just like that, he's alone with a psychotic spree killer; a retired child molester; and not a single other person to interfere in or bear witness to what happens next.

Darrin is remembering his father's crimes in agonised fits and starts. "You... you kept them in cages," he accuses Jarvis, his gun more a tool to gesture with than a weapon, "and burnt their clothes."

Where he falters, Hotch is there to help the memories along. He continues, "And when you finished, you'd bury them and you made him help."

The look Jarvis shoots him is pure resentment. As in: how _dare_ Hotch dredge up the past when Jarvis was just sitting here peaceably watching a baseball game from the best child-killing year of his life?

"Get up," Hotch says in disgust, and hauls him bodily out of his chair. " _Pretend_ you're a man." Jarvis's glare falters at that, so he lays it on even thicker. "You like little boys, don't you? They make you feel strong? Make you feel like a man?"

"Shut up," Jarvis grits out.

Hotch savours his shame, warm as liquor in his belly. "Is that a yes?" The old man's lip quivers — his whole chin trembles — and Hotch smiles in triumph, and drops him like so much stinking, rotten, trash.

Darrin has his answers now. Now it's time to pluck another string and end this. Hotch turns to him, shoulder to shoulder with Jarvis so when Darrin looks at Hotch he has to see the father he abhors as well. When he looks at his father he has to see Hotch. "Darrin, please," Hotch says: soothing words spoken with an undertone of urgency.

Darrin whimpers. He's off his meds and retraumatised, angry and afraid, not knowing in his agitation which way to turn.

Hotch is guiding him to it. "We're surrounded here," he says, because Darrin lashes out when he feels hemmed in. "The police are going to storm in here any minute," he says, to ramp up the time pressure. "They will not shoot you if you are unarmed," he says, because people under stress don't hear words like _not_. They only hear words like _shoot_.

Darrin is volatile, but easy to play. His finger tightens on the trigger as he swings between Hotch and the real object of his rage.

Hotch continues calmly, urgently, "You need to put the gun down now."

And Darrin hears, _Now. Shoot now,_ and he shouts, "Don't tell me what to do!" and he readies to fire, while Hotch quietly directs his attention and his aim to—

But in his fantasy Hotch doesn't have to manipulate him into taking the shot. He can take the gun out of his hands and aim it at his father himself. He can take on the role of the man Darrin Call and demand, "Why did you do that?"

"You're confused," says his father, his face alternating between that of Bill Jarvis and one much more familiar.

"He should die," says the man Call, Darrin.

"He should," agrees the man called Aaron, and pulls the trigger.

In his memory his father lies in the coffin a waxen object: a wasted, pitiful man. Cancer, not a bullet. And Aaron looks down at him and feels no grief, no guilt, only rage that he never got a reply to that never-asked question: _Why did you do that?_

But he knows why. Just as Darrin Call looked at his reflection and saw his father, so Hotch looks at the memory of his father and sees his own reflection: the kind of monster who, face-to-face with a kid whose eyes are wide with terror, wants nothing more than to beat the snot out of him.

In his fantasy, as he handcuffs Darrin for what he's done, it's a wide-eyed Reid who asks him, "What happened?"

"You couldn't stop me," Hotch answers, and punches him deep in the gut. And punches, and punches, and punches.

*

In reality, he gets no satisfaction from killing Foyet. He doesn't even remember it very clearly, afterwards: it's just a desperate fight and then a haze of fury, red and black. When it's over, the house is full of people and Haley's still dead and Jack needs his father.

And Reid is nowhere to be found.


End file.
